


All the World's a Stage

by inspiration_assaulted



Series: Fractured Lives [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 14:47:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inspiration_assaulted/pseuds/inspiration_assaulted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John plays his part, as Sherlock's work keeps bringing them both toward all the things he tries to hide</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And All the Men and Women Merely Players

**Author's Note:**

> This story will peel away from canon more than Broken Reunions did. The chapters will also be longer, since I'm creating more scenes myself, rather than just John's thoughts on canon events.
> 
> Ta!

John hated that ringtone. The Bee Gees were one of Jim’s obsessions, one of the few that John didn’t share. Sitting there, against the wall in that empty pool, absolutely _drowning_ in melodrama, that stupid ringtone was the last thing John wanted to hear.

He was pleased that Jimmy’s ability to threaten had stayed up to par since he last saw his favorite consulting criminal. Though, he did wonder how well human skin would stand up as a pair of shoes. Good in theory, not very practical in reality.

As John watched his brand-new husband snap his fingers for a trademark dramatic exit, he did feel a little disappointed. Was Jimmy not taking him with him? Was he going to have to play the hapless good doctor for much longer? Having Jimmy back now, being married to him now, it was going to be a lot harder to keep Sherlock from suspecting any connection between them. He would have to make sure there was no evidence. Easier said than done, since Sherlock could find evidence in the smallest of details.

Shit. What about his ring?

When Sherlock had pulled the coat and false bomb off him, John had almost panicked. The force the detective had used had nearly pulled off his gloves, the only thing hiding his new wedding ring, now in place on his left hand.

He refused to take that ring off, ever. But he needed an excuse for it now.

While Sherlock was yelling at Mycroft on his phone outside, John sent off a quick text.

**_Dear Jim, please help me hide my secret marriage from my flatmate_ **

Hours later, when he had gone to bed, a reply came.

**_Father’s ring, recently sent by mother to you. Empty box will arrive by post tomorrow. Love you, Johnny_ **

John just walked to the window, located the nearest CCTV camera, and blew it a kiss.

* * *

 

If John had to hear the word ‘boring’ or one of its synonyms just one more time, Sherlock was going to get a very good lesson in just what Johnny had done before they met.

The dead man in the car who should have died on a plane was a godsend.

* * *

 

John hated being in the paper. He was a very private man. Honestly, he had worked his whole life in Jimmy’s network, the biggest secret of the whole web. The only people, besides Jim and Baz, who ever saw his face ended up as his artwork. His sweet, disarming smile was the last thing they ever saw.

Yes, he was a good writer, but really, internet phenomenon? His blog? Flattering, but a touch annoying.

* * *

 

How nice of the Queen to send a helicopter for him. He would have remarked on it, but it was one of their supposedly ‘unmarked’ ones.

Jim had stolen one for a joyride once. Best birthday John had ever had.

“Here to see the Queen?”

“Apparently, yes.”

These were the moments he loved. Sherlock was ridiculous and pants-less and in a good mood, they had been ‘invited’ (read: kidnapped) to Buckingham Palace, and here they were, poking fun at the British Government and laughing in his face.

The British Government was not amused.

“We solve crimes, I blog about it, and he forgets his pants. I would hold out too much hope.”

The only thing that could fluster Britain was his younger brother.

“And you don’t trust your people?”

“Naturally not. They all spy on people for money.”

Oh, if the situation had been different, poor John would have been rolling on the floor in laughter at a joke from the great and stoic Mycroft Holmes.

“What do you know about this woman?”

Irene Adler. Oh, Mycroft, you’ve asked the wrong person. Johnny knew her very well. She was key in the web, and a possible cuckoo in the nest. Sex is a fabulous way to beg favors. John could only hope she knew better than to be phased by him. Irene would recognize him instantly, possibly even faster than she would know Sherlock.

Even if he hadn’t gone to any of those silly high school reunions.

* * *

 

“I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ when you’re speaking, but it’s usually subtext.”

John was not looking forward to this meeting, at all. No ruse by Sherlock, not even looking beaten, would keep Irene from knowing who he was. Not when she was part of the web. Not when she was one of the few who knew Johnny. No, this had no chance of succeeding.

But he wasn’t about to tell Sherlock that.

“I killed people.”

“You were a doctor!”

Doesn’t make it any less true.

Kate answered the door. John had almost forgotten about the redhead, Irene’s special favorite, her lover. She was quite the actress, playing a serving girl, but her look was a bit too… debauched for the act to ring true. She looked at John with just a flicker of surprise when he follow ‘Father’ Sherlock through the door, ushering him to the parlor and John to the kitchen.

“Johnny,” she hissed as she shut the door to the kitchen, “what are you doing here, with him? What about Jim?”

“Relax, Katie.” John filled a bowl with warm water, easily shedding his sweet-yet-slightly-stupid act. “Jim knows. I’ll be playing the poor dumb blogger of a mad genius until Jim comes back to collect me. It was all sorted out a few weeks ago. Don’t you dare do anything to tip off Sherlock.”

Kate nodded, fetching a clean cloth from a cupboard. John collected bowl and cloth and headed for the parlor, but turned back at the kitchen door. He smirked.

“You and Irene might want to put together a little… gift for Jimmy. Pay special attention to the name on the on the label, too.” He twitched his left hand a little, letting his ring catch the light, just to make sure she got the hint. She gave him a brilliant smile to show her understanding.

“Of course, Mr. Moriarty.” John just winked and left.

In the parlor was something John had unfortunately walked in on before: Irene Adler, trying to make a conquest. Recognition flickered in her eyes, but John hurried to continue his little act, hoping she would catch on quickly.

“Do you know the big problem with a disguise? No matter how hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.”

Clever girl, Irene. Seeming to mock Sherlock, really telling John that she knew but wouldn’t tell. John would have hugged her for her understanding, if he wasn’t acting.

Besides, she was naked. And he was married. And gay.

Sherlock sent him off on their little plan: set off the fire alarm, get Irene to give up tell. The Americans with the guns, however, were not.

But the gun to his head, the sense of danger, oh the adrenaline. Good-bye Doctor Watson, hello Johnny. This wasn’t Jimmy’s web at /all/. This was a rival group, after a key in the network. These were thugs, without the sophistication that Jim’s boys had. All bark, no bite.

“Mr. Archer, give the good Doctor Watson a shot. Non-fatal.”

Ok, so they did have a little bite after all.

The bullet ripped through his left shoulder, back to front, right next to his scar from Afghanistan. The pain ripped through John’s body and mind. The bullet buried itself in the floor, along with a few bone fragments. The shot had been point-blank, and John knew his left should would never work correctly again. Blood streamed from the gaping exit wound.

Johnny never flinched. His back stayed rigid and straight, his face completely impassive, as though hot lead had not just ruined part of his body. He could hear Irene’s quick shriek, see Sherlock’s wide eyes as he stared. He could hear the American demand the code again. John shook his head, hoping Sherlock would understand not to give it up.

Thank God he did.

“Mr. Archer, on the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson. For good, this time.”

Shit. Again?

 _Now would be an excellent time for another plan, Sherlock_ , he thought as the American began counting. Mr. Archer had so kindly bent him forward, still-warm barrel against the back of his neck, allowing John to bleed even faster onto poor Irene’s lovely rug. John made a mental note to pay her bill for replacing it.

“Vatican cameos!”

John leapt to his feet, driving his good elbow into Mr. Archer’s temple and grabbing his gun in the same movement. Just as fast, he pulled the man to his stomach on the floor, driving a knee into his spine and pressing the gun to his head.

Poor Mr. Archer never stood a chance against Johnny Watson-Moriarty.

A quick look confirmed that Irene and Sherlock had disarmed the rest, with the exception of the man who was killed by the gun in Irene’s safe. She sent him a lightning-fast wink. Sherlock just gave him a quick look of shock and curiosity. John would have some explaining to do later.

* * *

 

John refused to go to the hospital that night. That would just cause more problems than it would solve. Before the police had arrived at Irene’s, he had tossed his jacket and jumper, both soaked in blood, and put on one of the Americans coat instead. He had put the dead man over his bloodstain and allowed no sign of pain on his face. Thankfully, Sherlock went and got himself drugged, and Lestrade let him take the detective back to Baker Street, no questions asked.

Once Sherlock had slept off the special mix Irene had given him, he did indeed have questions. Of course, he went about it in the typical Sherlock Holmes manner: staring at John while he ate breakfast, fingertip steepled together beneath his chin, before bursting out with a statement of fact.

“You’ve had training.”

John didn’t bother to look up from his paper. Nonchalant was the word of the day.

“I’ve had lots of training, in lots of different things. You’ll have to be a bit more specific, Sherlock.”

“You’ve had training in combat.”

“Course I have. Soldier, remember?”

“No, more than that. You’ve had training in hand-to-hand combat, and in pain tolerance. No regular soldier could take a bullet to the shoulder without showing pain and still disarm a man as quickly as you did.”

“I never said I was a regular soldier. Surgeons don’t usually get sent on tactical missions, do they?”

“Tactical?” Sherlock gave him a sharp look. This was something he hadn’t known, then. John knew it wasn’t in his file, either. Mycroft would have commented on it the day they met if it had been.

“You heard me. Don’t give me that look, it’s not on my file. Even Mycroft would have to dig for that information, and he really isn’t much of one for ‘legwork,’ no is he?” That would give Sherlock the impression that his training was from the military, which was only partly true. Most of it came courtesy of Jimmy and his own role in the web. “The closest you got to it was saying that the origin of my limp was traumatic. Very true, too, gunshot wounds have a way of doing that.” The Taliban had captured him and had tried to put a bullet through his knee to hobble him during his escape. Their gunman had missed, and they had all learned a little more about Johnny the hard way.

Baz had spoken the truth, after all. Johnny was an artist.

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment, no doubt assessing the new information and comparing it to his past deductions.

“How close is it to the other scar?”

“Exit wound is left and down. Went in near the top of the shoulder, rather than the back. Missed the scapula, mostly. Came out below the collar bone. Probably nicked it, but it’s better than both of them broken like last time. The scarring will overlap, though, and the muscle will never quite be right.” John quirked a grin at the detective. “ ‘m afraid that’s the end of gymnastics for me, then.”

“Why not go to the hospital? For someone who’s always urging me to be checked over by paramedics, that’s very odd.”

This was much harder to explain. John had no true medical history. Jim had erased most of his files, leaving just enough fake information out there for John to go to medical school and later enlist. There were a lot of things about John, especially marks on his body, that wouldn’t match up with his file. Old scars, mostly.

“I’ve got training in field medicine for just that sort of thing. Besides, I couldn’t very well leave you here alone, high out of your mind, and it would have caused too many problems to take you with me.”

“Mycroft could have dealt with those,” Sherlock replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Yes, that’s true, but I still would have been in hospital for a week. Do I seem like the kind of person who would be alright with being confined to a bed for a week?”

Sherlock grinned.

“No, I don’t suppose you do.”

* * *

 

It really was a shame that Irene was dead, and on Christmas, too. Johnny liked her. She was bright and clever and more beautiful than anyone he’d ever seen before, and he was gay. Even if she was a danger to the web, it was a shame that she was dead.

* * *

 

Or maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t dead after all.

“…Irene?”

“Hello, Doctor Watson. Or should I say Doctor Moriarty?”

Just a magic trick, then. Another disappearing act, just like Jim and Baz, only a little more tragic. Beyond the good she did for the web, John personally had never been so glad to see Irene Adler.

“It’s Watson-Moriarty, in fact, but Doctor Moriarty has a nice ring to it.” He smiled. “It’s good to see you, Irene. So sorry we couldn’t invite you to the ceremony, but it was rather sudden.” Her answering smile was breathtaking.

“I understand, Johnny, but you should know that I’ll never forgive you for not letting me plan your wedding. Kate and I would have done a wonderful job, you know.”

“Yes, indeed. Will you tell him you’re alive? He’s so…” Distraught. Depressed. John may have been playing a part, being Sherlock’s little companion, but he still liked the man. Sherlock had saved him, after all, in the beginning. He didn’t like seeing him in pain and trying to hide it.

“He’ll come after me. I need the phone back.”

“Tell him.”

“I need your help. You could get it for me, Johnny.”

“I won’t risk my role. I need to stay where I am until Jim comes back for me. If I act differently, I’ll risk the whole network. Sherlock will notice if I act differently. You want the phone back, you get it yourself. Tell. Him.” His voice and face told the same story. John would not budge on this.

Irene sighed and sent a text.

“There. ‘I’m not dead, let’s have dinner.’”

“Thank you.”

Neither of them were prepared to hear Sherlock’s phone go off. With Irene’s personal text alert, it couldn’t be anyone else’s. John started to panic, ready to chase after Sherlock and find out what he had heard. What if he knew? Did he hear about Jimmy, about the web and John’s place in the center of it? Irene stopped him with a raised hand.

“I don’t think so. Do you?”

True. Sherlock would have confronted John if he had heard. He would have felt betrayed. Something like that, Sherlock Holmes would not be able to pass by.

So, John let him go. He let Mycroft’s assistant, paid off by Irene, no doubt, drive him back to Baker Street.

There, he found an unwelcome visitor: the leader of the Americans. At least Sherlock had already dealt with him. Johnny doubted his shoulder was healed enough to deal with much hand-to-hand combat. Thank God for small mercies.

* * *

 

**_Killing the dead. No one ever knows what killed them_ **

Jimmy did so love to show off for him.

* * *

 

John had never expected to see Britain outside a cheap café, smoking a cigarette. Mycroft told him Irene was dead. The text on the phone in John’s pocket said otherwise.

**_The heartless man saves the Woman. Love?_ **

But John would say he believed Mycroft, and John would tell this obvious lie to Sherlock, even though it would have to be an obvious lie. John Watson was a terrible liar, not the actor that John Watson-Moriarty was. Sherlock didn’t believe it, John didn’t believe it, but neither of them said a thing.

And John played his part once more.


	2. His Acts Being Seven Ages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ladies and gentlemen, please disregard the BBC canon timeline at any point it does not match up. Thank you.

Seven weeks. That was all it took for the act to end. Seven weeks for John’s world to fall apart.

It started on a Tuesday. It ended on a Tuesday. It all happened over the course of seven Tuesdays following the Belgravia case.

At first, the infant…

John rotated his ring on his finger, the cold metal sliding easily against the water trapped underneath. A child had come into the surgery with the flu and ended up sicking up on him. John had laughed it off at the time, just like any good doctor would, and scrubbed his hands raw as soon as mother and baby were gone.

God, he hated flu season. It made him miss digging shrapnel out of his friends back in Kandahar.

A light knock sounded at the door, making John jump. He scrambled to get out some papers and look busy.

“Come in!” he called. He didn’t have any appointments now, he noticed, checking over his calendar. Who could it be?

A slight, dark-haired young man slid through the door, shutting it quietly behind him. Dark eyes brought a smile to his face.

“I’m here to see Doctor Moriarty,” an Irish voice murmured. White teeth flashed in a smile.

“I see. What can I do for you, Mr. Watson?” John held in a laugh.

“I think I’m having heart problems, Doctor. I keep having this pain in my chest every time I think about my husband,” Jim smirked.

“Well, now, just take your shirt off and hop up here on the bench, and we’ll see if we can’t figure out the problem,” John replied in his best serious-doctor voice. He warmed up his stethoscope in his hand.

Jim pulled his shirt over his head with all the casualness of a strip-tease, watching John from under his lashes. He slid backwards onto the bench, eyes locked with John’s the whole time.

“Has your husband been away for long, Mr. Watson?” he asked, pressing his stethoscope to Jim’s bare chest. He let his other hand slide down his side, stopping teasingly above his waistband.

“Oh, ages,” Jim breathed. “Is it serious, Doctor?”

“I’m afraid so,” John replied, dropping his scope and running his hand up the inside of Jim’s thigh. “Do you have any other symptoms? Pain in the lips?”

“Oh, yes, Doctor.” John smirked at his breathless tone.

“Well, let’s see if we can’t take care of that.” He gripped Jim’s waist, sliding him across the bench to press into his body. He kissed his husband deeply, stroking across Jimmy’s lips and into his mouth with his tongue. Jim arched his back under his hands, moaning as John slid one up to tease and twist at his nipple.

When Jim was truly writhing a begging, John pulled away. He sat back down on his little rolling stool and assumed his serious-doctor persona again.

“That should take the edge off, but I’ll have to write you a prescription for a long-term solution, Mr. Watson.”

Jimmy stared at him with eyes clouded over with lust, panting. John scribbled on his prescription pad and tore off the top sheet to give him.

“Follow those directions very carefully and your problems should clear right up. Be sure to drop by if you have any questions.”

Jim’s prescription read ‘a good fuck.’

Then the whining school boy…

John hadn’t seen Jim since last Tuesday. Clearly, his husband had not followed his prescription, and that made for a sour Doctor Watson-Moriarty. He twisted at his ring again, a habit he’d fallen into. He shoulder was still killing him, too. He kept bumping into things: doorways, people in crowds, knocking against cruisers at crime scenes. People kept want to slap him on the back, too.

It made him grit his teeth every time.

Of course, the source of his teeth-grinding at the moment was sprawled out across the sofa, whinging up a storm.

“Why do they always insist on throwing some big _party_ or giving me _recognition_ , don’t they know that’s not why I do it? Mycroft will tell me I have to be presentable and _comb my hair_ , he always does that. It makes me look like some _child_ on school picture day, and I’m almost thirty, I’m not a schoolboy for them to parade around in a miniature suit…”

John tuned him out. The reveal of the lost painting Sherlock had found was tonight, The Reichenbach Falls. The papers were going to be there, since it was a big event. They had made Sherlock the star of the show in the announcements, so the British Government had stopped by personally to ensure Sherlock’s attendance. Everyone had allowed John to slip quietly into the genius’s shadow, assuming the two of them were more or less the same person. Some people might have called it annoying, being constantly overlooked.

John called it a tactical advantage. His Doctor Watson persona was carefully crafted, fleshed out with tea and shapeless wool jumpers. He was an unassuming man, kind but not all that bright when next to Sherlock. Doctor Watson handled people with ease, the same way Captain Watson handled a gun and surgery under fire. The same way Johnny handled his art and life in the center of a criminal empire.

Irene was right. They were all self-portraits of one John Hamish Watson-Moriarty.

John watched people trying valiantly to make small talk with Sherlock before eventually giving up. His phone vibrated, and he casually slid it out of his pocket to check the message.

Count to 153, then head to the gents.

Blocked number, no signature. Jimmy must be filling his prescription, then. John bit back a grin, counting carefully before excusing himself. No one noticed the unassuming man leave.

A hand reached out from the darkened hallway, tugging him off-course and into a closet. John collided with a pair of soft lips before the weak light was turned on. He ran callused hands across his husband, flicking open shirt buttons as he went. Jim did the same, backing him into a wall and kissing him desperately.

“I’d like to fill my prescription, Doctor,” he panted, tugging at the zip of John’s trousers. He dropped to his knees, and, in one smooth motion, swallowed John right down to the base.

“ _Oh_ , god, Jimmy,” John breathed, hands tangling in short dark strands.

John ignored the strange looks Sherlock shot him for the rest of the night.

And then the lover…

John thanked every deity known to man for separate rooms in the inn in Dartmoor. He’d come back late that night, wet and dirty and tire from a night in Dewer’s Hollow, to find a slim young Irishman in his bed. He didn’t ask how or why, just stripped down and joined him.

It was a Tuesday, after all.

“Just got free of the Ice Man,” was all John had let him say.

Now, twisted up in sweat-dampened sheets, the smaller man draped across his chest and snoring lightly, he wondered if it was even worth it to hope his husband would still be there in the morning.

And then the soldier…

The black cab slid smoothly to a stop in front of John on his walk back from Tesco that Tuesday. A bulky blond figure already occupied a seat in the back. Green eyes met blue as Baz handed him a fully loaded handgun. The grin slid from his face.

“Jimmy?”

“Yep.”

“Big Brother?”

“Americans.”

And that was all Johnny needed. Baz would take him where he needed to go, point him in the right direction, and John would pull the trigger as many times as he had to.

Good thing Sherlock was out that day, coming home too late to notice John’s considerably late return from the shops and the blood under his fingernails that never quite washed away the first time.

And then the justice…with eyes severe…

“Children, Jimmy, god, I hate it when you use kids in your puzzles!” John paced the empty warehouse. Well, Jim had wanted his opinion on the use of kids. John knew better than to think anything he said would sway Jimmy from his plans, but at least he had fair warning.

“I know, Johnny,” Jim said quietly, grasping at John’s hand as he passed and tugging their bodies together. “I have to use them this time, though. Their minds are so malleable.”

Then they had mind-blowing sex, Jim bent over an empty crate, their cries echoing off the bare wall of the dusty building.

They sat on the dirty floor for a long time after that, relishing the presence of the other, enjoying the fact that it was Tuesday. John talked about being in the papers again, laughing about being called a “confirmed bachelor.” Jimmy giggle with him, and they both ignored the heavy feeling of something hovering over them, something big. It did no good to talk about it, they both knew it was coming.

Jim Moriarty had been in court, after all. Jim Moriarty had drawn the world’s attention to himself. He would never do that without a way out, and John suspected that way out was Sherlock.

“Remember, John,” Jim had said as they parted, “tests are not always right the first time. I’ve got my thumb in a lot of pies.”

That was the only way John could stomach looking at the report of mild mercury poisoning.

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts…

John Watson sneered at the weak, sniveling figure of Richard Brook, each playing their parts. He knew this was it, felt it deep in his soul, echo through his bones. This was the endgame, this was the _fall_.

This was the last scene of all, that ends this strange eventful history.


	3. The Last Scene of All

The suit hadn’t fit Jimmy at all. The tailoring was perfect, the lines clean, it just hadn’t fit his personality. Jimmy was dark colors, ties with tiny skulls masquerading as tasteful spots. The man in court, dressed in light colors, buttoned up to the throat, may have been James Moriarty, but he wasn’t Jimmy.

“He’s a spider at the center of a web.”

Oh, Sherlock, you took the words right out of my mouth. John always called it his web, called him a spider.

Jimmy preferred the term “puppeteer.”

Jim looked like an upstanding citizen in the docket. Sherlock was doing a perfect imitation of a total ass.

It was so nice of him to return the knife he’d pickpocketed off John, even if it was stuck into an apple-based cryptic message.

* * *

 

“Recognize him?”

“No.” Yes. He knew them all. Jimmy had sent assassins to protect them. Johnny knew them, trusted them. He’d worked his magic along sided them before. They were good. Johnny was better.

After all, no one knows the human body like a doctor.

* * *

 

Honestly, this was not how John had expected to be arrested. Maybe for one of his masterpieces, for being part of one of Jim’s puzzles, for just marrying him.

But for breaking DCI Gregson’s nose?

Hardly any fun at all.

Now his was being dragged through the streets, handcuffed to his mad flatmate. Watching another celebrated assassin shot down.

* * *

 

John Watson sneered at the weak, sniveling figure of Richard Brook.

Damnit, was it too much to ask for just a tiny hint?

“Doctor Watson, I know you’re a good man.” Johnny could read between the lines. Stay in character, Johnny, don’t break now. It’ll all be over soon.

It took all his will power not to rip out Kitty Riley’s throat for touching his husband, _his Jimmy_.

* * *

 

He was disgusted with Mycroft. Never mind that it was all working out in their favor. He was disgusted with the man for selling out his own brother, his only remaining family. Had the man no shame? No sense of obligation?

Big Brother was made off ice. And in the room at the Diogenes, confronted by John, the ice cracked.

* * *

 

He knew the look on Sherlock’s face. He was hiding something, trying to be subtle about it. But Johnny wasn’t an idiot.

 _“John Watson?”_ The voice was rough, but familiar.

“Speaking.”

 _“Act like your life depends on it. Pretend you’ve just been told the old lady’s been shot.”_ Baz.

“What?”

_“Go. Pretend I’m the paramedics.”_

“What happened? Is she okay?”

 _“Good. Jimmy’s meeting Sherlock on the roof of Bart’s. He wants him to jump.”_ Baz spoke quickly, trying to get everything important in a single call.

“Oh my god.”

_“He’ll say there are sights on you, Hudson and the DI, there are. I’m on you. Go to Hudson now.”_

“Right, yes, I’m coming,” John kept up the act. He didn’t need to play up his shock or the tremor in his hand.

 _“Stay in character, Johnny,”_ was Baz’s last warning.

* * *

 

He didn’t need to play up his grief much either. That was a friend of his, lying broken on the pavement. That was the genius that had put him back together. That was the haven he’d found after the war had gone, after the beige, after the letter from Jimmy.

As they dragged him away, one thought made it through the ringing in his head.

_It’s over now. I’m coming home, Jimmy. I’m coming home._

* * *

 

When they finally let him go, John dashed back to the flat. He couldn’t stop his grin as he opened the door, ready to wrap Jim up in his arms and never let go, ready to run underground and never look back.

His smile slid from his face when there was no Jim, just a pale and visibly shaking Sebastian Moran.

“Baz?”

The large man’s eyes shown with tears.

“Jimmy’s dead.”

John barely noticed large hands catch at him as he slumped to the floor, the world drifting away into blackness.

* * *

 

It rained when they went to the graveyard. John limped up to the unmarked grave, his crutch in one hand, Baz holding his elbow. The grave was responsible for the return of his limp. There, underneath six feet of dirt and rock and roots, lay his husband. James Richard Watson-Moriarty.

The morgue wouldn’t give him the ring. John had yelled, screamed, threatened. It was a private morgue the web had used often, they knew who Johnny was. They’d handled his masterpieces. His threats carried weight with them.

All to no avail. They said they couldn’t give it to him, said they couldn’t give him an explanation.

Said he couldn’t see the body.

So John stood in the rain, staring down at the hateful earth that separated him from his love, and twisted his ring. The only thing he had left of their sudden and secret marriage.

Baz shoved him into a hot shower back at 221B. John let his oldest friend manhandle him, sliding to the floor of the tub as soon as the door closed. In that moment, John Hamish Watson-Moriarty was alone in the world. He was without the other half of himself. Sans network, sans lover, sans reason, sans husband.

Sans everything.


End file.
